


existing has been kind of hard (as of late)

by punkwixes (kitahart)



Series: decaytown dot tumblr dot com [3]
Category: Changeling: The Lost, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitahart/pseuds/punkwixes
Summary: thinking about some shit & then deciding not to act on it because it's 2017 and we're all gonna die anyways





	existing has been kind of hard (as of late)

**Author's Note:**

> Y E E T

“Hey.” You rap one-two-three times on the stairwell wall, like that’ll make any difference in whether the fucking gremlin living with you can hear you or not. “Hey. Bastard.”

There’s a series of loud thumping noises, and his bedroom door (yours, technically) opens a crack. “What, didya forget my name again?”

“No.” You stick your tongue out, like Ralphie can see it. If the next fucked-up thing he reveals is x-ray vision, you’re gonna be _so fucking pissed_. “Listen, I’m going out, I’ll be back in…” The blue light of your phone illuminates the hallway. It’s only, like, 9pm. “Later, probably.”

“Whatever.” The door closes with a click, and you’re left alone again, something ugly coiling in your chest like a wound-up spring.

You swing by the counter on your way out, make a mental note to grab something for him to eat as you grab your keys – _keys,_ shit, that’s another thing you gotta get him, like, the fucker has been crawling in and out of your unlocked windows for weeks, so: that, and food for him, because he eats more than anyone you know, and for you, because apparently you’re supposed to fucking take care of yourself now, like this is the inciting event to get your life in order and once you start home-cooking meals all this weird shit in your life will go away and people will stop looking at you like –

You’ve been holding your keys tighter and tighter in your palm, the pain finally shocking you into awareness, enough for you to release them suddenly. The keyring clatters to the floor, and you take a deep breath. Carefully pick them up, your chest tight.

Whatever. It’s not like you care.

The night air is pleasantly cool, a testament to the fact that it’s not-quite-summer in Louisiana. It’s late enough that nobody’s really out on the streets, which is fucking _great,_ because you’re so, so tired right now.

You kinda just pick a direction and keep going, because you’re already not getting any sleep tonight, on account of stuff you’re trying really hard not to think about. You fucking _hate_ meditation, and clearing your mind has never worked for you, but you try anyways, focusing on the quiet rhythms of the town: the crickets chirping in the bushes, the staccato _one-two_ beat of shoes against pavement, your bat thumping against the grass every third or fourth step. Not like it fucking works, but it gives you something else to think about.

There’s a sharp pricking at your shins, and you realize that you’ve stumbled off the path, weeds winding around your ankles. As you kick them off, a bolt of familiarity hits you: you _know_ this place, or at least you’ve been here before.

Way back when you first arrived in this shithole of a town, when you got fired from Kurger Bing for the first time, you spent most of your summer wandering around aimlessly – not the way Jenny does, to explore, but genuinely without a purpose. You’d come up on this road once or twice, decided that it wasn’t worth exploring, probably. Everything from that time is still a little fuzzy.

Anyways, you didn’t give enough of a shit about it back then, but judging from the kudzu-covered houses, this is Jake’s place. Jenny lives here, you’re pretty sure.

There’s a warm light on in one of the windows. Every fiber of your being tells you to turn the fuck around, like – let these people be, Jesus, they deserve some peace for the night. Against your better judgement, you trudge onwards, cutting through the grass to take the most direct route towards the tiny house.

Jake’s sitting on the front porch, backlit by the windows. His face is shrouded, but he looks up as you approach, then back down at what he’s got in his hands – a block of wood, you realize, as you get closer.

You stand in front of him for a long moment, hands jammed into your pockets, before he glances up again, sighs. “Jenny’s not home. She went out on her bike a little while ago.”

From the tone in his voice, she probably left a lot longer than _a little while ago_ , but you just shrug and stretch, checking the time on your phone again. You walked at least an hour to get out here, and you don’t remember any of it, which is – fine.

“Cool,” you say, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “Mind if I, like, chill here?”

Jake grunts, but shifts to the side, giving you enough room to sit behind him on the porch. That feels weird, though, so you stretch out on the step below him, one leg extended to the railing, the other drawn up to your chest.

The only sounds are your unsteady breathing and the quiet rasp of Jake’s knife as he turns his carving around in his hands, the occasional wood shaving drifting down into your face. It’s quiet out here – _too_ quiet, and you really didn’t have enough the intention of hanging out with Jenny at all, but you’ve got to do something to fill the silence now that you’ve fucking committed yourself to this.

“What’re you carving?” you finally ask.

He passes you the block of wood, only it’s not really a block anymore? You can’t tell what’s going on _there_ , though.

“Right now I’m just whittling, really. Guess I’ll figure out the shape later.”

“Oh.” Jake clearly doesn’t want to talk, or maybe that’s how he is, you have no fucking clue. Boundaries aren’t your strong suit, except when they’re your own. “Think I did that once, only with soap? In some kinda art class.” You pass the carving back. “I don’t really remember it, but I do? It’s hard to, like – I know the _information_ , so I must’ve done it, but I don’t have the memories.”

“Ah.” Jake’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “I’ve got some more wood in the house, if you wanna try.”

“Nah.” You left your pocketknife at home, and – Ralphie can be trusted with that, right? Probably. “Not, like, a great idea right now.”

“Suit yourself.”

You get the idea that Jake is the kinda person who likes long silences, is comfortable in them. Maybe you should be too, but you’re _not._ Silence is just one more way to make you think about things you really shouldn’t have to. Back when you lived alone, you coped with that by calling Kat and asking her to get you drunk, if you were feeling particularly responsible about it. Now you just bug people, you guess.

It’s like – there’s no real way to say what’s on your mind, especially with people like Jake or – God forbid – Lewis. Like – Jake’s from the Civil War times …ish? You wish that you could claim that amnesia made you a dumbass, but the truth is that you probably just weren’t a good student before Arcadia. Anyways, articulating your shit to people like _that_ is – there’s no real way to say it in a way that he’d understand.

Like – the next time someone calls you a _pretty girl_ you’re gonna punch their teeth in, and you’re just sitting on Jake’s front porch, damp grass tickling your shins, the sound of crickets heavy in the air, and it’s a clear enough night that there are a thousand stars above you, and you’ve been avoiding looking at them for long enough that your eyes hurt. There’s a whole lot bigger things out there than this town, and there are things out there that are bigger than you, and – yeah, that sucks a lot, but maybe it’s time to not have a personal crisis about this shit.

The motion of Jake’s knife has stilled, and you can kinda tell that he’s looking at you funny, so you press the heels of your palms into your eyes and breathe deeply, then grab your bat. You feel stronger, somehow, holding it. More steady.

“Do you ever…” Nah. This sucks. Scratch that, you would rather die than say any of the shit on your mind, up to and including the fact that you’re, like, on level eleven of burnout right now and then list of things you gotta do to keep this bastard child in your home keeps increasing. “Actually, I gotta get home.”

You pull yourself up, using your bat as leverage, and then turn back to Jake. “See you around, I guess?”

He looks like he’s going to say something, but then there’s a noise up on the road, and you both turn to see Jenny cycling towards the house, the lights on her bike blinding you like twin suns.


End file.
